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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24898309">Danger Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Only_Charlie/pseuds/The_Only_Charlie'>The_Only_Charlie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>After the Wedding, Angst, Drug Use, First Kiss, Hurt, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, You will enjoy your suffering, angst with happy ending, fluff at the end, optional sad ending, post 3x02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:15:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,584</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24898309</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Only_Charlie/pseuds/The_Only_Charlie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened after Sherlock left the wedding early? I mean- who leaves a wedding early?<br/>Story with two endings, becuase why the hell not?<br/>WARNING: DRUG USE!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em> “It is both a blessing </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And a curse </em>
</p><p>
  <em> To feel everything </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So very deeply” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> - David Jones </em>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>He got his keys out of the pocket with a trembling hand, inhaling deeply the rather cool air. The water vapour in his exhaled breath condensing into lots of tiny droplets of liquid water and ice that could be seen as a cloud, similar to fog. Like smoke. It didn’t tickle him though, like the good old smoke from the cigarette he was so eager to light. <em> So </em>eager. </p><p>But he knew it was pointless, it won’t take the hunger away. He should be honest with himself- he didn’t want a cigarette, he wanted something more to which smoke was a substitute, just like cases, just like <em>him</em>. Everything was a distraction. </p><p>
  <em> But He is not here anymore, is he? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shut.Up. </em>
</p><p>His mind wouldn’t shut up, not yet. The sound of the Waltz was still present in his mind, like the song you can’t stop humming, no matter how hard you try. But the notes were getting ugly, major turned into minor in his head, legato transformed into some kind of wail, vibrato wasn’t perfectly balanced anymore, sounded more like a tremor than a deliberate movement. Exaggerated. Imperfect. Useless (feelings) piece of music. It was a solo, not a duet. Solo, always solo.</p><p>With visibly growing impatience, Sherlock tried to put the key into the lock but every object around him, or so he thought, decided to recalcitrate and he couldn’t hit it right for the first two times, eventually managing it at the third.</p><p>“Jesus Christ” he murmured finally turning the key. At this point, he was willing to sit on the stairs and just snort a nice dosage of cocaine right on his doorstep. It was late (ten minutes to 1 am) anyway, no one would see, no one would care, not anymore.</p><p>
  <em> John would care, finding you passed out or dead because you ODed would ruin his Sex holi- Honeymoon. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shut. Up! </em>
</p><p>Straightened knocker hung irreverently, giving him a cold stare. <em> Oh great. </em> </p><p>Sherlock finally crossed the doorstep and kicked the door shut behind him. Before he made the next step he hesitated for a second, leaning on the wall. The ghost of heavy breathing John Watson invaded his mind, walking past him, hanging his jacket right next to Sherlock’s head and stopping by the stairs. </p><p>
  <em> That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. </em>
</p><p>His short sandy hair was a little ruffled by the wind, when they rushed through streets of London, his deep blue eyes glimmering with excitement, adrenaline dilating his pupils. Moments later Sherlock made him laugh, made him feel alive again.</p><p><em> And you invaded Afghanistan. </em> Contagious laughing<em>. </em></p><p>“And you invaded Afghanistan” he whispered, clenching his fists, pressing it into the wall behind him. Loop, loop, on the loop all those thoughts, images, feelings. A loop that started to tighten around his neck, enabling him to breathe. He loosened his silver (loop) tie.</p><p> </p><p>You invaded my life and it was never the same ever since.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, so sentimental, look at you” he could almost hear Mycroft’s mocking voice inside his head. Right, Mycroft...</p><p>Mycroft will know- it’s fairly obvious, thought younger Holmes looking down at his attire. Remains of mud on his Oxfords (off-road, dealer) and splatter of the water on the right side of his leg (a cab, car splash, 24h pharmacy, needle) were enough for Mycroft to estimate his whereabouts, of course as if he didn’t know already, thanks to his spies and cameras all over the city.</p><p>Any form of a lie wasn’t an option, skipping the subject either, hiding a coke- nope. All he could do was climb up the stairs and face his brother, with a needle and 2 grams of cocaine in his pocket. He would rather have the drug in his system already, feel how his heart rate increases, how the temperature of his body rises, experiencing the beginning of cognitive euphoria. Numbness overwhelming him, yes, cocaine combined with nicotine and he could feel his blood vessels narrowing; large arteries, small arterioles- doesn’t matter. The point is to feel his body, to feel how it all contracts, how it fights against the alkaloid filling every cell, crossing the blood-brain barrier, the breath deepens, the head is spinning, pupils dilating letting into the eyes more light, too much, not enough. </p><p>And silence.</p><p>Oh, the silence right after the first wave, finally nothing is racing, nothing is obvious, right before he gives in compulsive redosing… Everything was for a reason; if he was focused on his body, he wasn’t thinking about <em>him</em>.</p><p>The creak of the floor above Sherlock pulls him out of his thoughts and he finds himself staring at the brand new syringe like it’s a solution to all his problems and something he’s never seen before at the same time. </p><p>He was running out of time, he had to make a decision. Now. Going upstairs meant no drugs, walking out into the street wasn’t even an option. But he needed it, he needed silence, he needed to forget about everything that was happening for the past few months and Mycroft didn’t understand any of those needs. </p><p>He took off his coat in one swift motion along with his tail-coat, hanging it on the stair railing and in record time he was by the door of Mrs Hudson’s flat using the spare key from under the doormat. </p><p>Sherlock knew that his addiction took over him (not that he resisted), its legs carried him into the kitchen while one hand rolled up his sleeve and the other opened the drawer to grab a spoon. </p><p>
  <em> Lighter is next to the gas stove. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shut u- I know! </em>
</p><p>His fingers were shaking when he reached for the glass from the dryer, filling it with tap water. For a second he felt dirty, using Mrs. Hudson’s utensils. It wasn’t right, it was far beyond right or decent (who cares about decent!). John definitely wouldn’t approve of his behaviour.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But he is not here, he is at his wedding. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know, he should be (t)here.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With his wife. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know, it’s good, he is happy, I’m… happy for him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> His pregnant wife. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I- I- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oh, Sherlock, you were doing so well in lying to yourself. Shame. Shame, really. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shut Up. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He should call out Mycroft… </p><p>Water spilled over the top of the glass and Sherlock hissed with exasperation, turning off the tap and emptying the vessel, so it’s only half empty (full?).</p><p>
  <em> Take the new syringe, Sherlock, three units of water from the glass, squirt it down on coke, on the spoon. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shush. </em>
</p><p>Sherlock put everything on the kitchen table and sat on the chair, trying to control his twitching leg. He tore apart the package containing syringe with his teeth, then spilled half the content of a small plastic bag onto the spoon and…</p><p>
  <em> Three units of water from the glass, squirt it down, dear. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yes, yes. </em>
</p><p>Add water, mix it up. He switched on the lighter under spoon as fast as possible, tremble in his leg intensifying.</p><p>He knew he was being chaotic, he knew he wasn’t doing it right, step by step but he didn’t have time, not now, not with Mycroft upstairs. It used to calm him down, the preparation of his seven per cent solution always felt like some rite, with slow, deliberate movements, treating the white powder with reverence. </p><p>Looking at the almost boiling solution, Sherlock tried not to think why he was in such a state. No, no, don’t go there. </p><p>But he did.</p><p>The hurt clutched his stomach, squeezing it like a little squash ball, making him nauseous at the image of his <em>best friend </em>smiling at him, grabbing him by the nape of the neck, pulling closer. A little closer. The warmth of his fingers causing blood to sing in his ears, filling his chest with ecstasy similar to the one he’s about to experience. Closer and closer and…</p><p>No, no, don’t go there. Something else. Focus. Cocaine. Yes.</p><p>
  <em> The chemical structure of cocaine consists of three parts; the hydrophilic methyl ester moiety and the lipophilic benzoyl ester moiety, which are located in place of the carboxylic acid and hydroxyl groups of ecgonine respectively.  </em>
</p><p>Almost ready, already boiling solution. Putting down the lighter, he mixed everything one more time with a needle.</p><p>
  <em> This structure allows for its rapid absorption through nasal membranes and blood-brain barrier. </em>
</p><p>He couldn’t remind himself when was the last time he was enjoying the view of needle’s barrel filling itself with cocaine. It was a long time ago, before John.</p><p>He caught himself thinking about it more and more often recently- “Before John”. People use big events of history to create some kind of a timeline, to put minor events in order.</p><p>Before/After the Industrial Revolution</p><p>Before/After WWI</p><p>Before/After WWII</p><p>Before/After 9/11</p><p>Before/ (After?) John</p><p>Was it After John already? When it came to war it wasn’t really hard to establish the end of it</p><p>(armistice, capitulation, defeat, victory). Bombings and catastrophe- it’s finished when it’s quiet. </p><p>Just like right now- it was quiet. No Mrs. Hudson, no John. Only him and his demons.</p><p>The silence was piercing through his ears, drilling its way into his skull passing all the barriers of the external ear, the tympanic membrane, the internal ear, making his temporal lobe vibrate in anxiousness. </p><p>Silence meant the end.</p><p>The floor above his head creaked again but this time he could hear steps too, hesitating yet firm, light but even.</p><p>
  <em> The decision, Sherlock. Now. </em>
</p><p>The detective placed the syringe horizontally with a needle towards the median cubital vein and stopped. He knew this was it. </p><p>Mycroft was a patient man but was he <em>that </em>patient, to accept that his little brother chose cocaine over talking him out of it? He would be downstairs in 30 seconds, maybe less. The steps sped up (nervous, appalled?) and Mycroft was already by the stairs.</p><p>
  <em> Come on, Sherlock. Just inject, push the plunger. It’ll be over soon. </em>
</p><p>He wants to call out Mycroft, to call for help, because he can’t control himself. He should throw the syringe at the wall… but at the same time, he wanted it so bad. So bad to see double, to <em>not </em>think.</p><p>Mycroft was downstairs already.</p><p>Moriarty got up abruptly from his chair across Sherlock and fell on his knees before him, clinging on his dress trousers tightly.</p><p>“<em> Come on, Sherlock, it’ll be over soon. Just, take it. Fly,</em>” he smiled gently, nestling his cheek against his kneecap. “<em>Fly, because recently all you do is fall… </em>”</p><p>Moriarty put his hand softly on Sherlock’s one that was holding a syringe and pushed it a little.</p><p>“Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice was distant, too distant to stop the motion, to stop the needle from piercing his delicate, white skin.</p><p>“<em>Good, </em>” praised Jim but began to look anxiously at the direction from where older Holmes’s voice was coming.” <em> Push it in, Sherlock. Push it now! </em>”</p><p>“Sherlock!” his name was more clear now like he is in the same room. No, not yet. </p><p>Four meters.</p><p>“<em>Don’t fight it, it’s like flying without the falling part,</em>” Moriarty dug his fingers painfully into the flesh of his thighs, getting his face closer to the elbow pit. </p><p>Three meters.</p><p>Sherlock took a deep breath starring Moriarty in the eyes. A crazy smile was lingering on his lips, encouraging his actions. <em> Push it, Sherlock, push</em>.</p><p>Two meters.</p><p>Mycroft stood in the doorway with frightened expression looking at the syringe protruding from Sherlock’s forearm, but he could see that the cocaine didn’t enter his blood system yet. He couldn’t run, he couldn’t stand, so he made one tentative step forward, not diverting his eyes from his brother. Sherlock was so deep in his emotional pain and so desperate to block out the Moriarty’s face and his voice, that in a split second when he saw Mycroft reaching his hand towards him he panicked. He knew Mycroft will take it away from him, his cocaine, his silence.</p><p>One meter.</p><p>He is taking it away! Panic. </p><p>
  <em> No silence for you. </em>
</p><p>“No!” Sherlock’s eyes shot wide and in one swift motion pushed the plunger all in. Cool cocaine entered his body. The war was over. </p><p>Capitulation.</p><p>“Sherlock!” the sound of umbrella hitting the floor resonated all over Baker Street like a bomb that exploded 1,900 feet above Japan in 1945. But it didn’t startle Sherlock, he just lounged in his chair calmly, pulling out the needle. Much better.</p><p>“Sherlock, what have you done?” Mycroft greeted his teeth, snatching the syringe out of his hand, putting it into his handkerchief with disgust. Sherlock only waited for cocaine to kick in, usually, it took one minute but something was telling him, this time it would be different. Mycroft wasn’t having any of it.</p><p>“Take care of the mess you’ve made, Sherlock! We are going upstairs. I presume you don’t want Mrs. Hudson to find you here in the middle of your… <em> trance, </em>” he spat the last word.</p><p>The big clock with red numbers in Sherlock’s mind was counting down a minute when he got up and unsteadily made his way to the sink to pour out the rest of the water from the glass and rinse the spoon of the remainings of his drug. He put it back on the dryer and on his way out, put the lighter on its place, shoving plastic packages to his trouser’s pocket. He didn’t care if Mrs Hudson spotted there was something wrong with her kitchen if anyone was here. He <em>really </em>didn’t care. At this point, his brain decided to only fasten the seatbelts and prepare for the ride he hasn’t been on for a while now.</p><p>“Are you satisfied with your cleaning? Because even five-year-old would-”</p><p>“I don’t give a single fuck, Mycroft. Close the door behind you,” he muttered, leaving the room, not looking behind him. He knew his brother’s OCD won’t let him leave the downstairs flat with any indication of their past presence. </p><p>He would put the spoon into the drawer, previously thoroughly drying it with the green towel laying by the sink. </p><p>Sherlock started to climb up the stairs. </p><p>Then he would make sure there are no remains of cocaine on the table, cleaning it up with the paper towel standing by the knife hol- <em> holy shit. </em> <em><br/></em>Sherlock abruptly leaned his back on the wall sliding down to sit on the tenth stair.</p><p>Oh God… <em> oh God… </em></p><p>He couldn’t keep himself up, something pushed him down all the way and started stretching the handrail before him into slim lines, too far away to reach them with his hands. His vision doubled and some rare feeling of invincibility started to build inside his stomach to soon explode in his neck, running right through the common carotid arteries, right and left, attacking his brain. He could feel vessels supplying his brain filling with the drug. Oh, it was delicious. </p><p>Suddenly his heart started to pump like crazy, which felt like it was trying to breach right through his ribcage, breaking his bones or squeezing between them. Either way, it wanted to escape from him. Yes, run, hide. Hide under the bed, no one is going to find you there! Run, my heart, run!</p><p>The lungs. Expanding and contracting, trying to do both at the same time. Air is making its way in and out, no, before it flows in, it’s already flowing out. No time to breathe. Stop breathing, lettheheartthroughohmygod. Come on!</p><p>
  <em> Sherlock? </em>
</p><p>Let the heart run, just stop breathing and the little suction-pressure pump will escape right between the trachea and left lung, now! Run!</p><p>
  <em> Sherlock… </em>
</p><p>But the heart tangled itself in the pulmonary vein, pulmonary artery, aortic arch, coronary vessels sprang free and embraced it, holding it inside his chest. Unable to move, to scream, to call for help. Left alone. Nobody is going to help you, little heart.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock started to clutch at his shirt, not making any sound, just staring blankly at the ceiling, not noticing his brother crouching on the lower stair, taking his pulse. Tachycardia. Not a surprise.</p><p>Mycroft unbuttoned two upper buttons of Sherlock’s shirt to make sure he could breathe without any restraint while the first wave of alkaloid washed over him, activating his sympathetic nervous system. </p><p>
  <em> For God’s sake, Sherlock. What have you done?  </em>
</p><p>There was no point in asking how much did he take, but judging by the size of the spoon and little plastic bag Sherlock left on the table, containing at least half of its initial content, Mycroft estimated that in his little brother’s blood system was circulating at least 1.1g of cocaine. </p><p>Sherlock yelped and suddenly stopped looking with wide eyes around him. He started visibly relaxing all his muscles, turning from taut violin’s string into the numb flesh, which used to be a living person. </p><p> </p><p>His eyelids got heavy, suddenly costing too much effort to keep them parted. To see (<em> to observe)</em>.</p><p>The feeling was sobering at first but then turned into something rather familiar to Sherlock. Something better than he remembered. </p><p>The beginning always felt like being thrown into the freezing water. <em> Water... </em></p><p>Initially, he tried to fight the overwhelming cold, that was paralyzing his body from head to toe. He could feel all of the three hundred muscles contracting and quivering at the same time to produce a little bit of warmth. And when he thought that his body run out of all available energy- everything halted, focused only on floating between the ice floes. </p><p>Once again, after being clean for five years he found his moment of euphoria – where chest gets heavy and he falls into a state of total silence, tiptoeing on the edge of life and death, the moment right before his heart takes one more beat in an effort to keep him alive.</p><p>Inhale. Exhale. </p><p>Three seconds of nothingness are embracing him, his chest, his body, his mind. He overcomes the panic now, but the first time he experienced this particular feeling of nothing he called his mother out loud. He thought he was dying.</p><p>
  <em> Mummy, I’m scared of dying. Please, help me. Please, make it stop... </em>
</p><p>But now he knows the feeling of <em>nothing</em> when everything is silent, you are not sure if you’ll get your next breath. Maybe the heart stopped already and in seconds the whole life will flash before your eyes, the weird way of the brain to say goodbye. It might. <em> Shr</em><em>ödinger’s heart</em>. And you’ll never know, until- <em> Thump-bump</em>. Relieve.</p><p>Inhale. Exhale. Next three seconds and your life last for only three seconds. That’s all you get. Take it or leave it. </p><p>Inhale. Exhale. Beauty, money, power- everything loses its validity. <em> Everything </em>doesn’t matter anymore because <b>everything is nothing without the next inhale</b>. </p><p>The Earth stopped pivoting on its axis around the Sun (or Sun around the Earth?), the Moon somewhere in all this cosmic mess. Still floating he looked up to see two Black holes with blue irises around them, asking him to go with them, to follow their leads. Sherlock agreed, feeling their orbits getting closer to pull him inside.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mycroft managed to set Sherlock on his feet, dragging him for the next seven steps to finally reach their destination- the sofa and laid him down, mumbling about Black Holes. After making sure his head was secured, Mycroft took off his jacket and chose to loosen his tie to put both clothing items on the chair nearby, straightening all the wrinkles. He ignored the sight of a covered needle wrapped up in his handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket and came back to Sherlock, which was now smiling like a cat who got the cream, chest rising and falling evenly.</p><p>After ten minutes of immobility, Mycroft dared to check his brother's consciousness.</p><p>"Sherlock, can you hear me?" Mycroft sat on the sofa near Sherlock's chest and decided to try his luck but didn't believe Sherlock could answer him. He wasn't wrong.</p><p>"Iceberg. Fucking Black Holes and Icebergs," words seemed to amuse Sherlock to the point he felt the urgent need to laugh out loud. Was it the sound of the words or the way they felt on his tongue? Mycroft didn't know. But he was hoping his euphoria will last for the whole... <em>session </em>because he knew the reasons behind Sherlock's actions and the worst that could happen now was Sherlock remembering them (reasons, not actions). Which was going to be a hell of a job, judging by the view that welcomed Mycroft at 221B Baker Street. The whole sitting room looked like a cave of a crazy wedding planner, filled with purple ribbons, flowers, photos and napkins... <em>Dear Lord</em>.</p><p>Holmes' piercing gaze was tracing every information hanging on the wall, even if he couldn't make much of it because of the dimmed light in the room provided only by the small lamp in the corner. He threw a glance at his brother and stood up, admiring his work. First, he thought with amusement that Sherlock's OCD was worse than his (<em>lilac not purple!</em>) but soon enough he sobered.</p><p>His brother truly had an addictive personality. He could hardly understand drugs; the feeling, the ultimate off switch for his racing mind but <em>this</em>? This didn't make any sense whatsoever. The affection, the devotion, the sacrifice... <em>the sentiment.</em> Sherlock never...</p><p> </p><p>"John!" a scream cut through the air, eyes again wide open glued to the photos and pieces of paper hanging above their heads. Ignoring his name being called out by his older brother Sherlock sat up and reached for the closest hanging paper. He couldn't see a thing but his brain still could remember what was hanging in this corner of the wall. Maid's dresses. Lilac. Fucking lilac!</p><p>The unspeakable anger took over him and he crumpled the paper throwing it to the side.</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock, calm down.</em>
</p><p>The adrenaline kicked in and no force could stop him from destroying every bit of his hard work. But at this moment he wasn't thinking about it as of his work, not anymore. This was his curse to watch <em>him </em>get married, to participate in it, to <em>help </em>with it. Jesus Christ!</p><p>His mind started racing, body not keeping up with the rest of him. Throwing himself at the wall, franticly ripping everything apart, every paper, every thread of material every little thing. At this point, he didn't know if he was destroying himself or the items. Maybe both at the same time.</p><p>"The bloody dress, the flowers, the maids, the place, the food, everything so bloody perfect! So fucking perfect, wasn't it John?" ignoring Mycroft's presence maybe even not acknowledging it, he stood up abruptly, throwing everything on the floor, stomping on it. "How did you like my speech, huh? How did you like my love confession, wrapped up in the Best Man's speech, did you enjoy it? <em>Today, you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved — in short, the two people who love you most in all this world.</em> On your bloody, <em>bloody </em>wedding. I said it at your wedding, to all those people! And they were laughing and crying! Can you imagine?"</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock.</em>
</p><p>But Sherlock covered his ears like a child, trying to block his hearing. He was sick of hearing his name, almost felt like the words could be turned into the rope and start suffocating him, slowly, so he could be aware of losing consciousness, how his breathing flattens, not enough oxygen in his brain, the heart stops beating. Silence. No, no, his heart stopped beating, he can't hear it anymore. <em>Ohmygodohmygodohmygod...</em></p><p>Suddenly he remembers he is not alone. He reaches blindly forward with his one hand to get a grip of something or someone, not quite sure which would be better, and begs. With loud thump falls on his knees, inspecting his chest, trying to find some <em>on-switch</em>, there is none. John took it. Shit, maybe he put it somewhere here before he left? He always puts everything on the view, it should be here somewhere...</p><p>Sherlock jumped on his feet, ignoring the blurred vision and started moving and relocating all his stuff, trying to find his <em>on-switch</em>. But as he was snooping around he could feel the hole in his rib cage getting bigger and more painful with every second. Ignoring the unbearable suffering he threw a glance towards Mycroft startling him.</p><p>"Start looking with me, it needs to be here somewhere, check the kitchen, under the sink, he loves to hide things from me there."</p><p>Mycroft made a step forward and looked around, not having a clue, what is it that he should be looking for.</p><p>"What are we looking for exactly?"</p><p>"The switch, my <em>on-switch</em>! I can't hear my heart, I can't feel my pulse," he touched his wrists as if to show his brother that he is dead. "We need to find it, John had to hide it here somewhere. We are both geniuses, it shouldn't take us long. What are you looking at? Start looking!"</p><p> </p><p>Mycroft's jaw dropped hearing Sherlock's words not sure how to behave. Was he supposed to participate in this madness or pretend he didn't exist, stand by and make sure Sherlock didn't hurt himself?</p><p>Only now he saw how broken Sherlock was, how much he was repressing his feelings daily, hiding them. <em>But I warned him! I knew how it's going to end the first time Dr. Watson limped into Sherlock's life! I told him so!</em></p><p>But the older Holmes knew it wasn't about being right, it was about helping Sherlock to get through the night without even more harm. He could at least take care of the physical aspect if not for the emotional one. He approached Sherlock who was in the middle of throwing things around and as gently as he could, he took his brother's wrist and put his fingers on the radial artery taking his pulse.</p><p>The younger Holmes recoiled not prepared for the physical contact, staring daggers at Mycroft.</p><p>"What are you doing?! You were supposed to check the kitchen and the bathroom. At such pace, we won't find it until..."</p><p>"Hey, Sherlock, look at me. I can feel your pulse, it's all right," Mycroft tried to smile but he didn't need a mirror to know how pathetic he looked. And unfortunately, Sherlock saw it too.</p><p>He snatched his hand out of the grip and started walking towards the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock didn't want to listen, he <em>knew</em> what he felt or more what he didn't. Mycroft didn't want him to find his switch, because he threw out his ages ago and that's what Sherlock told him as he was pulling everything from under the sink. Buckets, detergents, damn it. Nothing, nothing, nothing!</p><p>The panic was growing inside him, building itself somewhere along the nape of his neck, pressing on his vertebrae. No, no, he <em>needs</em> to find it, for John. John would be so mad if he lost it. He finishes his shift at surgery soon and will come back home. He couldn't tell him, he's lost it!</p><p>"John will notice, he will see I'm not breathing, there is no pulse! He will notice!"</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock, hey, look at me.</em>
</p><p>"Did you check the bathroom?"</p><p>Mycroft hesitated for a second but not long enough for Sherlock to notice and only shook his head.</p><p>"Nothing, I checked twice."</p><p>"Damn it!"</p><p>
  <em>Upstairs. It must be upstairs, under his mattress or in his bedside cabinet. He always says that if you want to hide something you should put it on display. It's dumb. Stupid, little John. But maybe John knows that Sherlock knows, maybe it's a challenge, an unspoken bet. Oh, brilliant. You know how to keep me in check and I enjoy it likewise.</em>
</p><p>"I bet you won't resist the cigarette. How long has it been, Sherlock? Three months without a <em>fag</em>?"</p><p>"Oh my God John, you and your slang words, you should withstand contact of those young nurses and doctors at your clinic."</p><p>"Ah, you know, they have children, can't escape the slang," John winked at him, leaning against the door jamb.</p><p>For a second Sherlock forgot his heart was not beating properly. For a second he let himself be consumed by John's warmth and believe that nothing happened. He didn't fake his suicide, he never left John behind. No marriage, no child and their friendship developed. At some point, they acknowledged their feelings, one evening they've drunk one glass too much and their lips met while standing in the corridor, before parting to their separate rooms. And the peck turned into a kiss, then into full snog. Sherlock pushed him in the direction of his room. They touched, caressed each other, whispering promises and assertions.</p><p>John, John, let me have you. <em>John...</em></p><p>Mycroft pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, not managing taking care of Sherlock at this point. He felt helpless because all he could do was just look at how Sherlock was swaying back and forth on the floor while moaning John's name. Whimpered supplications escaping brunet's mouth made Mycroft uncomfortable, he wasn't interested in his brother's desires and he didn't want to know the details of Sherlock's fantasies. It made him cringe to even think that his younger brother might be <em>able </em>to be involved romantically (God forbid sexually) with someone. And the fact that Sherlock's mind was not lucid right now and without any inhibitions, he was grunting for his Doctor was too much for sober Mycroft.</p><p>He was sure that he'd rather look for the "on switch" than listen to Sherlock asking Doctor John Watson to take him, so he tried to redirect Sherlock's mind into a different direction than the imagined <em>sexual intercourse</em>. He should finish his trance in the bed, lying down, ready to sleep when it's all over.</p><p>"Sherlock? Sherlock, do you want to look for the switch in your bedroom? Maybe you left it in the-" he didn't even finish the sentence, because Sherlock's bloodshot, wet eyes shot open and in a matter of seconds sprung up to run towards John's bedroom upstairs.</p><p><em>Oh great, </em>thought Mycroft ironically, following his brother.</p><p>It <em>must </em>be here! Sherlock frantically started opening all the drawers, one by one ignoring (not acknowledging?) the fact that all of those were empty. No clothes, no books or magazines. <em>Doesn't it bother you?</em></p><p>But in his mind they were full. John will be back soon. He pulled out all the jumpers and boxer shorts and t-shirts, removed hanging shirts from the wardrobe and threw all his pants on the floor. Empty, now it was empty. Still no <em>on-switch</em>.</p><p>There were two places left- under the mattress (empty) and in his bedside cab-</p><p>He felt all air being punched out of his lungs at once and tears started blurring his vision, what caused it? (Sadness, relieve?) It didn't matter, what mattered was that his heart started beating again, shyly at first, the blood slowly flew from the right atrium into the right ventricle through the tricuspid valve, hesitantly as if not sure it could make it towards pulmonary artery.</p><p>
  <em>Easy there, Sherlock. It's ok.</em>
</p><p>When the ventricle became full, the tricuspid valve shut closed to prevent blood from flowing backwards into the atrium, no hesitation anymore. You have to do this, you need to pump the blood again you need to make it flow, you need to breathe, Sherlock. Breathe.</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock, breathe!</em>
</p><p>Blood left the heart through the pulmonic valve into the pulmonary artery and flew to the lungs. There you go, good, breathe.</p><p>The ceiling was spinning and he needed a few seconds to realize he's laying on his back in a horizontal position on John's bed, breathing heavily and clutching something fiercely in his hand. The ultimate on-switch. Sherlock raised his hand to his eyes, hearing the sound of metal hitting metal as he did so, only to finally focus his gaze on John's dog tags- his <em>on-switch</em>. The detective couldn't control the sob that escaped his lips, maybe he was still not clear-headed enough to do so. It hurt him, to look at it, to touch it. He should have taken morphine, doctors prescribe it for pain. And he was hurting really bad.</p><p>"More, I need more..."</p><p> </p><p>Mycroft furrowed his brow and made a step towards his little brother, who looked like he wanted to get up but wasn't able to. Did he hear <em>more</em>?</p><p>"Sherlock, can you hear me?"</p><p>"More, where is more? Where is my syringe? I bought two grams of coke, where is the rest? I need more."</p><p>Mycroft straightened up immediately, clenching his hands into fists.</p><p>"The drug you've purchased is already down the drain, the syringe bent and thrown to the bin," he lied without blinking.</p><p>"You are lying, you always take my drugs for testing and the syringe- you wouldn't risk-"</p><p>"Stop it! Stop at once!" trying to compose himself, he sat down next to Sherlock and put his palm on his brother's knee. "I'm here to help you, brother mine. Just let me help you."</p><p>Sherlock snorted attempting to sit up again, but he failed. Again.</p><p>"You can't help me. No one can help me!" he pushed himself up finally and pushed Mycroft away.</p><p>"Where are you go- Sherlock, stop!" he knew the drugs where in Mycroft's jacket. Bugger!</p><p>But Sherlock was fast. Too fast for Mycroft and Sherlock got downstairs before him, then running to the sitting room and down the corridor to close himself inside the bathroom. With Mycroft's jacket. With the rest of the cocaine. That was very much not good.</p><p>The older brother tried the handle but it was locked. Even if the door were old, Mycroft just couldn't force the door, he was the brain, not the muscles, he had people for that kind of things. Bugger for the second time. The only thing left was the negotiations.</p><p>"Sherlock, I'm not going to be angry with you, but please open the door. I'll help you, I will just..." he could hear the sound of Sherlock snorting cocaine. Too late. Cocaine was again in his system.</p><p>"For God's sake, Sherlock! Open the do-" the sound of key turning inside the lock interrupted him and there he was. With his reddened eyes, bags underneath it and pale complexion, white powder visible on the edge of his nostrils.</p><p>"Oh, Sherlock."</p><p>But Sherlock just turned left and as he stood he collapsed on his bed, to let the rush of dopamine overflow him.</p><p>Mycroft with resigned steps followed him and leaned on the wall, sliding finally to the floor, hiding face in his hands. This Danger Night was belittled by him, it shouldn't have been. He failed him. He failed as a big brother.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Ending A</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ending compatible with the plot of the season 3, let's call it the sad one.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The mornings after were always painful, always full of headaches and sandpapers in his mouth. But he deserved it, you can't be always high on dopamine, it needs time to re-synthesize... or something. The curtains were drawn together, preventing rays of sunshine from invading his living space.</p><p>He was getting too old for that, this morning after even if lasted only for one minute, was already shit. Water, his brain pleaded, bring me some water...</p><p>"It's on the nightstand," he heard a familiar voice and with calculated movement, Sherlock reached for the glass filled with water.</p><p>"Why are you still here? Don't you have governments to bribe or something?"</p><p>"I'm not angry with you."</p><p>Sherlock sighed, sitting up, leaning his back on the headboard.</p><p>"You should be. I am," he took another sip, finally looking at his brother. This night was restless and one of the worsts they have encountered. One look was enough to see it. "Don't bother with your big brother talk, I won't be using again."</p><p>The words seemed empty like they've been said just for the sake of saying them. They both knew it wasn't the truth. Mycroft sat down by the foot of the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly knackered. The silence felt heavy and Sherlock knew there was nothing more to say.</p><p>He wanted to take more, Mycroft didn't want him to, so they will have a game of cat and mouse for next month or so before Sherlock either decides he's had enough or just stops fighting it and sinks to the bottom. He will sink every night a little bit more until some miracle happens and he stops. Maybe it's going to be a case, very consuming case or Lestrade will refuse to work with him until he gets clean (again). And everything will be back to normal. Without John. But normal.</p><p>He made an effort to stand up and unsteadily went towards the bathroom.</p><p>He was alone once and he was good at it. Nobody to take care of, with Mrs. Hudson downstairs there was always someone to talk to if he needed to. He already made it work for the past few months why not now?</p><p>He flushed the toilet and cleaned his hands, being very careful to not look at the mirror. He knew exactly how he looked like. Like a shadow of himself.</p><p>Mycroft was already in the sitting room, with his creased jacket laying on his thighs, umbrella in his hand.</p><p>"I know it's going to be hard for you..."</p><p>"Nothing is going to be hard for me, Mycroft. You can go now, I have things to do," Sherlock spat.</p><p>The older Holmes frowned.</p><p>"Like what, buy some more drugs?!"</p><p>Sherlock heard steps on the stairs (slow, careful, firm)- Mrs. Hudson with the tea and biscuits.</p><p>"Like drink a cuppa in complete silence. Good morning, Mrs. Hudson."</p><p>"Good morning, Sherlock. Mycroft, so early here?"</p><p>"Or so late," politician murmured under his nose, not looking at the landlady.</p><p>Both men were praying for the woman to keep her mouth shut, to not mention the party that caused so much distress last night. But the man can wish.</p><p>"You should regret not being there yesterday, Mycroft. It was such a lovely..."</p><p>Sherlock made an incoherent noise and without any care he collapsed on his chair, hiding his face in bent knees. He couldn't hear it, he wasn't <em>able </em>to hear how lovely it was, how everyone had so much fun and the food was so delicious, the bride, the groom! Oh, it was sooo fucking, tooth-rooting sweet and <em>lovely</em>!</p><p>He wanted to cry, he wanted to disappear, he wanted to <em>not </em>exist; just for a couple of days turn off his mind completely and not think how miserable he was. Because, oh Lord, he was so miserable.</p><p>He muted the silent question of Hudders asking Mycroft what was wrong. If he didn't, he would burst from all those feelings like an overfilled with an air balloon. He started rocking, praying (there is no God, silly) for this woman to disappear.</p><p>
  <em>Which one? Mrs. Hudson or Mary?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not you again.</em>
</p><p>Suddenly this thought slapped him across the face- he wasn't here anymore. He was gone. For good. And he was never coming back. Because who would love Sherlock Holmes when you can love your new family? Enormous pain was cutting through his chest as if trying to snap him into pieces and he couldn't keep the tears from spilling on his thighs. He didn't care if Mrs. Hudson realized what was going on. He simply stopped caring.</p><p>
  <em>Let them see. Let it all out.</em>
</p><p>The hand was moving up and down his back in a soothing manner.</p><p>"I know, Sherlock, I know," she was still there, calming him down, letting him cry.</p><p>There was nothing more any of them could do at this point.</p><p>Mycroft could only look after him, making sure he didn't take more drugs. Mrs. Hudson could only bring him tea and his favourite gingerbreads, hoping John and his detective won't make the same mistake she made with Margaret all those years back.</p><p>And Sherlock could only wait, until one of the following things happened: a- he got over his feelings (yeah, right), b- he overdosed one night (more likely), c- someone gave him a case so challenging he has no time to dwell on the past.</p><p>None of them knew that in thirty hours one of the above will happen.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Ending B</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ending B- a happy one we all wish was true.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The mornings after were always painful, always full of headaches and sandpapers in his mouth. But he deserved it, you can't be always high on dopamine, it needs time to re-synthesize... or something. The curtains were drawn together, preventing rays of sunshine from invading his living space.</p><p>He was getting too old for that, this <em>morning after </em>even if lasted only for one minute, was already shit. Water, his brain pleaded, bring me some water...</p><p>"It's on the nightstand," he heard a familiar voice and his eyes snapped open.</p><p>
  <em>John.</em>
</p><p>Was he still high? No, that can't be... But it was an only reasonable explanation for John's voice to be<em> here</em>.</p><p>Sherlock finally propped up on his elbows, ignoring his thirst, looking at the source of the sound... and there he was.</p><p>John Watson was sitting on the chair opposite the bed, still in his white shirt and black slacks, but without his bright tie and red suspenders. He looked utterly knackered with an empty glass in hand but surely there was once whisky in there. He played with it, as Sherlock reached for the glass of water (no pain killers, punishment) and finally leaned on his headboard. The tension was instantly killing him because John wasn't saying a word just looking with his stormy blue eyes and Sherlock (probably for the first time in his life) didn't know which question ask first. Also, the fact that John looked incredibly sexy sitting like that did not make it easy for him to formulate full sentences.</p><p>"What-"</p><p>"I tried to call you. Three times, to be precise. I thought you will be leaving with Mrs Hudson but it turned out that you were long gone. Molly saw you leaving without even one word," John was angry and hurt, maybe a little disappointed (nothing new). His bags under eyes suddenly became more evident as if the best night of his life sucked all the life out of him. Still playing with an empty glass, the doctor sighed, diverting his eyes towards the floor. "And then Mycroft calls me, asking me what do I want from you. Strange, I think, why would Mycroft call me while you are not answering your phone? My only thought- something happened to Sherlock."</p><p>The look John gave him was sobering. Frozen in place, with water in his hands Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off of his friend, wishing suddenly he didn't take the cocaine yesterday.</p><p>"Well, nothing <em>bad</em> had happen-"</p><p>The bottom of the glass hit the small table startling Sherlock. John rose to his feet.</p><p>"You got high on coke, Sherlock! After how many years of being sober? How many years did you throw out the window?!"</p><p>"What are you doing here, John? Shouldn't you be on the plane or something?"</p><p>"Stop this right now. I'm not in the mood," John was pacing around the room now, running fingers through his hair.</p><p>"Then what are you doing here, John?" It wasn't easy to admit but even when John was angry with him, it was still better than not having him at all. And John was here again, angry, but here. And it was way too easy to wish, to imagine that maybe... maybe they could just...</p><p>Sherlock's heart was beating faster at the thoughts rushing through his mind. John was here, with him, not his wife, not on the plane. It was wrong, it should be wrong, so why does it feel so right? So right to have him in his bedroom, to have his attention all to himself.</p><p>
  <em>Selfish, bastard!</em>
</p><p>The doctor finally stopped and sat on the bed, not meeting Sherlock's gaze.</p><p>"I came here with Mrs Hudson, to find you huddled in a ball on your bed... so high..."</p><p>John hesitated for a second as if not sure if he should continue and Sherlock wished he didn't. He remembered calling out John, when he re-dosed the drug, begging him to not leave him, to hold him... to love him.</p><p>Suddenly the detective felt sick. John heard all of it, his wailing and pleas.<em> Bugger</em>.</p><p>"Whatever you heard or you thought you heard I was high as a ki-" John's hand landed on his knee covered with a blanket.</p><p>Sherlock's brain stopped rapidly. Blink, blink. Head stopped hurting, his body ignored any stimuli other than John's hand on his kneecap. His whole world shrunk into the surface of his skin that had contact with John. Breathe, Sherlock. Error. Error.</p><p>John sighted not sure where to go from there. It shouldn't be this hard, he was a grown man, for Christ's sake! But it was. Because first- he was a British man and talking about his <em>feelings </em>was difficult in general and second- he was about to talk about <em>his</em> feelings towards Sherlock <em>with </em>Sherlock, who wasn't very good at it too. Talk about complicated situations.</p><p>He was thinking through the things he wanted to say to him while watching him sleep after his little session and in his head it sounded perfectly normal- <em>I was being an idiot... I think I wanted to punish you... No, I don't know why... Your loss broke my heart... And you are the only one that can make it heal properly, no one else, I'm afraid... I know that I love you, you must know that already but... also I'm in love with you... So helplessly in love that even thinking about it makes me choke on my feelings...</em></p><p>It was easy to think it, but all of a sudden the words just couldn't come out, form themself outside of safe harbour of John's mind. They stuck somewhere between cartilages building the larynx.</p><p>Christ, John, talk!</p><p>"Sherlock, I've been such an idiot..." good, continue, it's nothing he didn't know before "and after your return, I was trying to prove myself something, maybe trying to punish..." Jesus, it sounds even more pathetic out loud "we never talked about the Fall and I just couldn't..." oh my God, will you <em>complete</em> the sentence or are you going to stutter all the way through? "The thing I'm trying to say is that I can't pretend anymore. I can't go on with my life that doesn't include you, I just can't, Sherlock. I was trying to convince myself that I enjoyed a quiet life in suburbs but God help me, It's going to kill me from the inside if I continue living like this."</p><p>"A month," Sherlock finally regains control over his vocal cords. "It would drive you crazy in a month."</p><p>John smiled and it quickly transformed into full laughter, with Sherlock beaming at him. What made him laugh, he wasn't sure in the first place but it wasn't important. Does he need to think about every detail, every reason for his actions?</p><p>When they calmed down a bit, John continued.</p><p>"Sherlock, after last night I don't want to be friends with you. Am I correct that you don't want to be friends with me either?"</p><p>He saw that the question took Sherlock off the guard, looking now like a lost, hurt puppy.</p><p>"Do you want... more?" only the doctor knew how much strength it took him to ask that question, but he needed to know. He needed to make sure that the words Sherlock's spoken a few hours ago were truthful.</p><p>The detective stayed silent, thinking through everything.</p><p>"But, John, you got married yesterday you have..."</p><p>"Sherlock, I don't like repeating myself. Do you want more?" <b>the Capitan voice</b>. <em>Oh, dear</em>.</p><p>Brunet just nodded, looking away. Was it a cruel joke or was he still high, maybe it was just a dream...</p><p>The hand was on his thigh now, John's body sixty centimetres closer. He could smell him- citrus, cedar and pine tree. His sheets were going to smell like him for a little while. Good.</p><p>"I want more too. Mary knows it, I think she always knew," Sherlock's eyes finally met dark blue ones and he allowed himself to hope despite the fact John is the bridegroom. But he is <em>here</em> which means...</p><p>"The annulment of marriage," he whispered not sure if he should feel relieved or even more guilty.</p><p>"Yes," John scratched the back of his neck. "I still want to raise the kid but... Sherlock, will you have me? I'm far from perfect and I hurt you by getting married and I'm aware that you never really wanted to have a..."</p><p>But Sherlock wasn't listening anymore. John wanted to annul his marriage for him, he wanted to be with <em>him</em>. He probably should be opposed to the idea, should consider it immoral and preposterous... but he was the same man that enjoyed triple homicides and walked naked around the Buckingham Palace and on top of that he loved John Watson with all his heart and there was nothing in this world that could keep him away from him.</p><p>"Yes," he said, not aware that John was still talking.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Yes, I'll have you, if you will have me, John," was he blushing? The warmth was spilling all over his face and neck making his skin itch. Sherlock felt a finger under his chin destined to raise his eyes towards John's. When he surrendered he almost started crying, seeing the depth of the doctor's feelings in them, the devotion and something he hasn't seen in a while- he seemed more content, less bitter.</p><p>Sherlock put his hand around John's and intertwined their fingers (no wedding ring), feeling his heartbeat accelerating. This is what John did to him, his proximity. In a matter of seconds, Sherlock was in his arms, not registering who closed the gap. It was pleasant to be able to hide his face in the crook of John's neck, smell him, feel the warmth and beginning of the morning stubble on his left cheek. He shyly touched the soft skin with his dry lips and heard a repressed moan as a reply.</p><p>The blond man pushed Sherlock away to grab his face and hesitantly lean so their foreheads were touching, eyes closed.</p><p>"I love you too," whispered John probably answering Sherlock's words, spoken while he was high but no less truthful.</p><p>Trying to control shaking of their bodies they leaned further, breathes uneven, ragged, full of lust and thirst for the other person. Sherlock could feel the air escaping John's mouth on his lips causing him to inhale it deeply as if it was more vital than the rest of air. Breathing was boring, but not when he could breathe the same air as John Watson.</p><p>Their lips finally met pressing against each other, slowly tasting and teasing like it's been the very first time or the hundredth, moving and rubbing and holding desperately.</p><p>So one and a half year of friendship, two years of mourning, one happy return, one annulled marriage and one unborn later they were finally where they should have been all those years ago. But it's ok because they got there eventually. A little broken but still in love.</p><p>It was what it was and it was them all along.</p><p>
  <em>The End</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>An that is it. I hope you liked my potato. Stay safe and healthy everyone!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Leave comments and kudos to let me know what you think &lt;3 Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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